When Philip Schuyler (1733-1804) began building his estate near Albany, NY in 1761, he was determined to make it a suitable home for his growing family as well as for his stature as a gentleman of wealth and property.

Then called The Pastures (now called the Schuyler Mansion), the brick house was to be elegant and substantial in its Georgian symmetry, and sit grandly on eighty acres high on the hill overlooking the Hudson (or North) River so that visitors coming to Albany from New York City would be sure to see it first. Twenty-eight-year-old Philip wanted his house to be as impressive inside as it was commanding from the exterior, and while the house was being built, he combined a business trip to London with something of a decorating spending spree.

Among Philip's most impressive acquisitions was the scenic wallpaper he bought for the upstairs and downstairs halls. Unlike most 18thc wallpaper which was block-printed, or "stampt", this paper was painted entirely by hand in tempera paint in shades of grey - en grisaille was the term - to mimic engraved prints. In fact, the entire scheme of the papers was an elaborate trompe l'oeil to represent framed paintings and cartouches, all custom designed for the walls and spaces they would occupy.

This was, of course, extremely expensive, and as much a sign of Philip's deep pockets as his taste. The wallpaper he ordered featured romantically scenic landscapes by the Italian painter Paolo Panini, and was called "Ruins of Rome." The "Ruins of Rome" wallpaper was so rare and costly that there are only two examples of it known to survive in America: in the Jeremiah Lee Mansion in Marblehead, MA, and in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY, which has installed the paper taken from the now-demolished Rensselaerwyck, the nearby home of Stephen Van Rensselaer II, and later, of Philip's third daughter, Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler Van Rensselaer. All status and expense is a matter of degrees, however; the scenic wallpaper was inspired by aristocratic rooms like this one from Ditchley Park, Oxfordshire, UK, which features real Panini paintings in gilded, carved frames and Genoese cut velvet on the walls.

But for colonial New York, the wallpaper was grand indeed. Philip became a general during the American Revolution, and the wallpaper formed the first impression of the house's many illustrious guests during that era, including Benjamin Franklin, the Marquis de Chastellux, the Marquis de Lafayette, and George and Martha Washington, as well as gentlemanly British "prisoners" such as Major John Andre and General John Burgoyne.

Oh, and there was that other young officer who ended up marrying the Schuylers' second daughter Elizabeth: Alexander Hamilton. (Eliza often returned to The Pastures throughout her married life, and the house is something of a secondary character in my new novel, I, Eliza Hamilton.)

Tastes change, however, and cities and families change, too. After General Schuyler's death in 1804, the family sold The Pastures, and the land around it was divided and developed. Albany grew to surround the house, which passed through various owners before finally being purchased by the State of New York and opened as a historic site in 1917.

Philip's original scenic wallpaper has long since been removed and lost. But over the last few years, the state's Peebles Island Resource Center, led by Rich Claus and Erin Moroney, has painstakingly recreated a high-quality digital reproduction of the "Ruins of Rome" based on the wallpaper from both the Lee Mansion and the Van Rensselaer installation in the Met, but redesigned to fit the Schuyler Mansion's walls and woodwork as perfectly as the original once did. The new wallpaper was completed and hung as part of the Mansion's centennial celebration this year. As you can see from these photos (please click on the images above for the slideshow), it's a glorious recreation, ready to impress modern visitors just like their 18thc counterparts.

There are literally thousands of surviving letters written by Alexander Hamilton, dating from his teenaged years all the way to a few hours before his fateful duel with Aaron Burr. But there's only one letter written to him by his oldest son Philip that is known to survive today, and this is it. I saw the letter this past week; it's currently on display through March 11, 2018 as part of the Treasures from the Vault exhibition at The Morgan Library in New York City.

Philip followed in his father's footsteps, and studied at Columbia College (formerly King's College) in New York. This letter was written when Philip was a fifteen-year-old student at Columbia. Philip begins with a bit of family news related to his grandfather (his namesake, and his mother Eliza's father Gen. Philip Schuyler), and then, like most college students, complains indignantly about one of his professors. But as the Library's placard notes, "Philip, like his father, had a flair for drama - a trait that would lead to a duel and ultimately his own death at the age of nineteen."

Dear Papa

I just now [received] the inclosed Letter from Grandpapa In answer to a letter I wrote to him In which he has inclosed to me three receipts for Shares in Tontine tavern amounting to 100£ I have given the receipts to Mama; I Delivered my speech to Dr Johnson to examine, he has no objection to my speaking it, But he has Blotted out that sentence which appears to me to be the best & most animated in it which is you may recollect it, "Americans you have fought the Battles of mankind you have enkindled that sacred fire of freedom, which is now, &c. Dear Papa will be so Good as to give my thanks to Grandpapa for the present he has made me but above all for the Good advice his letter Contains which I am very sensible of its being extremely necessary for me to pay particular attention to, in order to be a Good Man.

In late fall 1777-1778, Gen. George Washington and the rest of the Continental Army made their winter encampment at Valley Forge, about 20 miles west of Philadelphia, PA. The army's headquarters were in a small stone farmhouse owned by Isaac Potts, and contained not only the offices of the army, but the lodgings for the General, Mrs. Washington, their servants, and his staff - including a young lieutenant colonel and aide-de-camp named Alexander Hamilton.

I've written before about the headquarters - now part of Valley Forge Historic Park - in this blog post here, but I also wanted to share this photograph from the house. This is the railing to the house's original (and only) staircase that leads to the second-floor bedrooms and the attic. Humbly designed and well-worn over the centuries, it's the same railing smoothed by countless hands that included those of George and Martha Washington, John Laurens, and, of course, Alexander Hamilton. So if you visit (the entire park is free and open to the public), you can run your fingers along the same wooden railing as they did - it's like touching their hands. Guaranteed history chills!

Most American college students today spend the day after Christmas doing not much of anything. And why shouldn't they? It's winter break, and the return to school and classes is still comfortably in the distance.

For twenty-one-year-old Alexander Hamilton, however, things were a bit different on the day after Christmas in 1776. Yes, he, too, was on a break from his studies as a student at King's College in New York. But he hadn't left school for a holiday; instead he'd volunteered to fight in the American Revolution, and he never did return to complete his degree.

Hamilton became a captain in command of an artillery company in the Continental Army. Unlike his counterparts with the British forces, he hadn't received any formal training in artillery (the large-caliber guns that were used in ground warfare). Instead he'd learned about cannon and their employment in the same fashion he'd learned everything else: he'd read voraciously, devouring everything he could find on the subject until he'd been able to rely on knowledge to overcome his initial lack of experience.

By the winter of 1776, he'd acquired that field experience. He'd fought in - and survived - the army's battles in New York City and their costly losses, and he and his company had been an integral part of the defense of Gen. Washington's retreat across New Jersey that fall. He'd also begun to attract attention for his skill, his bravery, and his daring.

"I noticed a youth, a mere stripling, small, slender, almost delicate in frame," another officer recalled years later, "marching beside a piece of artillery, with a cocked hat pulled low down over his eyes, apparently lost in thought, with his hand resting on a cannon and every now and then patting it, as if it were a favorite horse or pet plaything."

Although no one ever doubted Hamilton's courage, his "slender...frame" wasn't always up to the rigors that that courage demanded, and there are mentions throughout the war of him being ill, doubtless brought on by exhaustion and stress. At the beginning of Christmas Day, he wasn't with the army, but recuperating in a nearby farmhouse. Yet later in the day he rallied, and he and his company joined the rest of Washington's troops as they made the perilous midnight crossing of the Delaware River, enduring bitter cold and blowing snow, and dodging chunks of ice in the dark water.

Their goal was the town of Trenton, NJ, where 1,400 Hessian troops - mercenary allies of the British - had made their winter encampment. Washington planned to attack early in the morning of December 26, and he was counting on the Hessians to be still recovering from their Christmas celebrations the night before. With a depleted force of less than 2,000 men, surprise would be the Americans' greatest weapon against an unsuspecting enemy.

It was. By 8:00 am, Washington's troops had surrounded Trenton. The Hessians were unprepared and confused by the unexpected attack, stumbling from their quarters in disarray while their officers furiously attempted to mount a counterattack.

At one end of King Street (what an appropriate name!), the Hessians were met by Hamilton and the two cannon that he and his company had dragged through the snow. As the Hessians fired upon them, Hamilton and his company set the cannon to aim down the narrow street. At his order, the guns fired rounds of grapeshot and solid shot into the Hessian infantry and artillery, creating deadly havoc, disorganization, and panic in the blowing snow.

By 9:30 am, the Hessians had surrendered. The Hessian forces had lost 22 men killed in action, 83 wounded (including their commander, who would later die of his wounds), and 896 taken prisoner. The Americans were also able to seize the gunpowder and other supplies that the Hessians had stockpiled for the winter - supplies the ragtag Continental Army desperately needed. Best of all, the battle was a much-needed victory that buoyed American spirits and energy, and renewed enthusiasm for the war.

There aren't any contemporary paintings or drawings of the battle, and the 19thc images created long afterwards focus on Gen. Washington, not the little captain from New York. But in the lower corner of the painting, above, you'll see artillerymen pushing and pulling their cannon through the snow towards the river. And somewhere in the middle of them was Alexander Hamilton.

If your first introduction to the children of Gen. Philip and Catharine Schuyler is "Hamilton: An American Musical", then you'll be forgiven if you believe that there were only three Schuyler sisters. Angelica Schuyler Church (1756–1814), Elizabeth, or Eliza, Schuyler Hamilton (1757–1854), and Margarita, or Peggy, Schuyler Van Rensselaer (1758–1801) are the three oldest of the Schuyler siblings, the three sisters who were probably closest, and, doubtless for the sake of dramatic clarity, the only three who are mentioned in the play.

In reality, however, Catharine Van Rensselaer Schuyler gave birth to fifteen (!) children in the course of her long marriage to Philip Schuyler. Of these, seven died either at birth or before their first birthdays, including sets of twins and triplets. There were three surviving sons: John Bradstreet Schuyler (1765–1795), Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (1768–1835), and Rensselaer Schuyler (1773–1847) - so you can forget the theatrical Angelica's lament about how her father had no sons, too.

But there were also two more Schuyler sisters. Cornelia Schuyler Morton (1776–1808) was born on the eve of the American Revolution. Cornelia was considered beautiful and witty, much like her oldest sister Angelica. She's shown, above left, in her portrait by Thomas Sully.

Also much like Angelica, Cornelia fell in love with a man that failed to impress Gen. Schuyler. Cornelia first met George Washington Morton, a young Princeton-educated lawyer from a prosperous NJ family, at the home of Eliza and Alexander in 1796. Although Washington did ask Cornelia's father for her hand, he was denied, and curtly shown the door. Soon afterwards, the young couple eloped. Tradition says Cornelia jumped into Washington's arms from her second-floor bedroom window, fleeing with nothing but the clothes on her back. Regardless of this dramatic beginning, the Mortons were happily married, with five children. Unfortunately both parents died young: Cornelia in 1808, and her husband in 1810.

Catharine Schuyler Malcom Cochrane (1781–1857), above right as a teenager, shared the same birthday (February 20) with her oldest sister Angelica, but more than a generation separated them in age. Twenty-five years younger, Catharine, or Caty, was truly the baby of the family, and a particular favorite of her aging father. She often visited with her grown, married sisters Angelica and Eliza, whose own children were Caty's contemporaries. (In I, ELIZA HAMILTON, Caty is the baby born soon after the army's winter encampment in New Jersey where Eliza and Alexander fall in love, and become engaged.)

Caty married twice. Her first husband, Samuel Bayard Malcolm, was from a prominent New York merchant family with Scottish roots, loyal supporters of Alexander Hamilton's Federalist party. After Samuel's death in 1817, Caty married her cousin James Cochran, the son of John Cochran and Gertrude Schuyler Cochran, Philip Schuyler's sister (and who are all mentioned in I, ELIZA HAMILTON, too.) Both Caty and James lived into their late seventies.

The portraits of the sisters, above, courtesy of the Schuyler Mansion, Albany, NY. Many thanks to the Mansion's staff for their assistance with this post.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler, her family, and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

One of the most challenging aspects of writing historical fiction is trying to remove all the fusty layers of time and interpretation to capture the immediacy of the past. Whenever possible, I look to primary sources - letters, diaries, journals - that give voices to long-gone people. Seeing those original words reprinted in a book or on-line is useful, of course, but being able to see the originals of those same letters can take research - and inspiration - to an entirely different level.

Earlier this year, I was fortunate to see first-hand one of Abigail Adams' more famous (or more infamous, depending on your perspective) letters now in the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society. Abigail was no fan of Alexander Hamilton, nor was her husband, John Adams. As young as the American republic was in 1797, vitriol, name-calling, and backstabbing were already part of the political system, and there were few rivalries more bitter than the one between Hamilton and Adams. Each had many reasons, and both were right: Hamilton believed he'd been shut out of the government he'd help create during George Washington's presidency, while Adams felt that Hamilton had undermined his attempts to win a second presidential term himself. Each accused the other of unseemly ambition, and both were justified there, too.

As can be expected, Abigail supported her husband, and loathed Hamilton. The Adamses had always been frank in writing to one another about politics, and her (low) estimation of Hamilton echoed his own. The letter that she wrote in late January, 1797, begins calmly enough, with notes of the weather and the "pain and anxiety of Seperation." Then she launches into gossip she'd heard regarding Hamilton, followed by her own appraisal of his character, only to realize at the letter's end what she's written:

"Mr. Black told me the other day on his return... that Col. H[amilton] was loosing ground with his Friends in Boston. On what account I inquired. Why for the part he is said to have acted in the late Election. Aya, what was that? Why, they say that he tried to keep out both Mr. A[dams] and J[efferson], and that he behaved with great duplicity....that he might himself be the dictator. So you see according to the old adage, Murder will out. I despise a Janus....it is my firm belief that if the people had not been imposed upon by false reports and misrepresentations, the vote would have been nearly unanimous. [Hamilton] dared not risk his popularity to come out openly in opposition, but he went secretly cunningly as he thought to work....

"Beware of that spair Cassius, has always occured to me when I have seen that cock sparrow. O I have read his Heart in his wicked Eyes many a time. The very devil is in them. They are laciviousness itself, or I have no skill in Physiognomy.

"Pray burn this Letter. Dead Men tell no tales. It is really too bad to survive the Flames. I shall not dare to write so freely to you again unless you assure that you have complied with my request."

Obviously, John Adams didn't obey Abigail's request. Read as transcribed here, her words are indeed "bad," but to see them as she wrote them in the original letters showed exactly how angry she was.

Compare the delicacy of Abigail's fond greeting to John in the same letter, above, with the closing paragraphs, below. By the time she reached "Beware of that spair Cassius..." she was driving the pen across the page, her letters growing darker, wider, and less formed as she pressed the nib of her pen furiously across the paper. How much more powerful - and revealing - those words are in their handwritten version!

Many thanks to Sara Georgini, Historian and Series Editor, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society, for showing this letter and others to me. Excerpt from letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, January 28, 1797, Massachusetts Historical Society.

George Washington - commander-in-chief of the Continental Army during the American Revolution and the first President of the United States - was the most painted American of the 18thc. In all those many portraits, he is shown either in his general's uniform of buff and blue, or in civilian clothes, often a black suit. Compared to his counterparts in Europe, his dress is sober, even severe, as was fitting for a near-legendary citizen-soldier, the leader of a new republic.

However, in the case of this remarkable jewel-encrusted medal - which doesn't appear in any of those portraits of Washington - the general made an exception.

After the end of the war, officers of the Continental Army and their French counterparts who had served together formed the Society of Cincinnati. The mission of the Society was to preserve the memory of the war for future generations, and to maintain an appreciation for the achievement of American independence.

The golden eagle that became the Society's insignia was designed by Pierre Charles L'Enfant, the French-born military engineer who served in the Revolution and, in time, became the master planner of Washington, DC. When L'Enfant returned to France to have the Eagle made by the Parisian goldsmiths, officers of the French Navy commissioned a more impressive, jeweled version as a surprise for Washington - the Diamond Eagle shown here. L'Enfant carried the medal back to America with him in 1784, and presented it to Washington on behalf of the French officers at the first general meeting of the Society of Cincinnati in Philadelphia in May, 1784.

Washington seemed to have reserved the Diamond Eagle for the most formal occasions. As President General of the Society of Cincinnati, he likely wore it for the Society's special events, and also for his own annual birthday ball. Featuring emeralds, rubies, and 160 diamonds from India and Brazil and a total diamond weight of 9 cts., the medal also includes scenes and mottoes related to the life of Cincinnatus, the self-sacrificing Roman statesman to whom Washington was often compared. The medal was unique in 18thc America, and was a stunning tribute to the man who wore it.

After Washington's death, his widow Martha Washington sent the Diamond Eagle to Alexander Hamilton, the newly-elected President General of the Society. It's much easier to imagine Hamilton taking pleasure in wearing the medal - not only for what it represented and its association with Washington, his mentor and close friend, but also for the sheer showiness of it. Hamilton enjoyed dressing well, and since he especially liked the display of military uniforms, he must have been both honored and secretly delighted to wear the Diamond Eagle.

Following his death in 1804, his widow Elizabeth Hamilton (yes, the heroine of my historical novel I, ELIZA HAMILTON) sent the medal to the third President General, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney. Pinckney in turn donated the Diamond Eagle to the Society in 1811, and it became the badge of office of the president general of the Society. The Society continues today as the oldest patriotic organization in America, and remains devoted to the principles and ideals of its founders.

Rarely exhibited publicly, the Diamond Eagle is currently on loan to the Museum of the American Revolution in Philadelphia until March 3, 2018. It's especially fitting that the medal is displayed in the museum adjacent to Washington's War Tent, another powerful symbol of Washington's dedication to his troops and the Revolution.

See here for more information about viewing the Diamond Eagle at the MoAR.

Above and below: The Diamond Eagle, front and back, with its original leather case. The blue and white ribbon, symbolizing the continuing friendship between France and the United States, is a modern replacement. All photographs courtesy of the Society of Cincinnati.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

The American Revolution was an 18thc war, and like most 18thc European wars, it was fought primarily in the warmer months. Armies went into camp for the winter months, and while their hostilities didn't cease, large battles and troop movements were put on pause until spring. The armies used winter encampments to regroup, restock supplies, drill, and strategize. For the American army, winter encampments were also a way for Washington to keep his troops of largely non-professional soldiers from scattering and disappearing to distant homes and families.

The Continental Army's encampment for the winter of 1777-1778 was at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. The location was strategically important for several reasons. It was on high ground, offering an open view of the surrounding countryside. It was located beside the Schuylkill River, which provided transportation of supplies and troops. It was also near enough to Philadelphia, then occupied by the British forces, to keep track of the enemy and their movements.

One drawback of the site, however, was the lack of a large manor house or estate to use as the army's headquarters. Chester County was farmland, with farms and related businesses owned primarily by prosperous but middle-class Quaker farmers, and the larger houses that best served the army's purposes didn't exist in the area. The only house available was a two-story stone house originally built by the ironmonger Isaac Potts; in 1777, it was being rented by a widow, Deborah Hewes, who in turn rented it with furnishings to the army for the six months of the winter encampment.

The small house - two rooms downstairs, three upstairs, plus a summer kitchen ell and a garret - served not only as the main office of the army, where meetings were held, plans made, letters and orders by the dozen written and sent - but also as sleeping quarters for Gen. Washington and his staff. The first floor rooms became the General's personal office, and the office for his staff. Upstairs, the General and Mrs. Washington occupied one bedroom, the second, smallest bedroom was reserved for visiting guests, and the third was shared by the staff officers. The officers' servants as well as the enslaved servants brought from Mount Vernon by the Washingtons slept wherever they could: in the kitchen, the stable, or on mattresses or blankets on the floors of the hallways. At any given time, the house could be sheltering as many as twenty-five people.

Among those crowded together at headquarters that winter were seven aides-de-camp, educated men who served Gen. Washington, and were so trusted by the general that they were referred to as his "military family." These aides-de-camp included Lt Col. John Laurens, Lt Col. Richard Kidder Meade, Dr. James McHenry, Tench Tilghman, and, of course, Lt Col. Alexander Hamilton.

Today Washington's Headquarters is part of the Valley Forge National Historic Park. The house has been restored and furnished to appear as it did in 1777, and is open and free to the public (more information about visiting here.) The photos above shows the outside of the house, and the office where they would have worked, writing letters and orders and anything else that the general ordered. Below is the bedroom shared by the aides-de-camp, although in 1777 there would have been more folding camp beds packed into the small space. Imagine seven men packed in here to sleep, with the only heat coming from the fireplace, and the only "conveniences" were several chamberpots (which wouldn't have been emptied until morning) stored beneath the cots.

Alexander Hamilton most likely first met Elizabeth Schuyler in Albany in the late autumn of 1777, and shortly before the army settled into Valley Forge. Standing in this bedroom today, I can't help but wonder if Alexander thought of Eliza late at night, when at last the army's work was done for the day and the other men around him were all asleep. Alexander and Eliza wouldn't meet again until another winter encampment two years later in Morristown, NJ - and the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

A near-constant cycle of childbearing and nursing children was one of the realities of married life for most 18thc European and American women. Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton (1757-1854), the heroine of my new book I, Eliza Hamilton, was typical. Over the course of her twenty-three-year marriage to Alexander Hamilton, she was pregnant nine times, miscarried once, and bore eight children. She was much more fortunate than many of her contemporaries, with all the Hamilton children surviving to adulthood. Her mother, Catherine Van Rensselaer Schuyler (1734-1803) was sadly more average: she bore fifteen children, seven of whom died as infants.

Yet very little 18thc maternity clothing survives. There are several reasons for this: utilitarian clothing is much more rare, simply because it was worn until it was worn out. It wouldn't have been set aside and preserved the way that, say, an elaborate dress created for an elite woman for a court appearance might have been. Everyday clothing was refashioned and cut apart, remade and reused until, literally, nothing remained.

Because textiles were expensive and valued, most women would not have had the luxury of owning garments that were designated exclusively as "maternity." Instead their ordinary clothing would be adapted to their changing figures. The drawstrings that formed the waistlines in petticoats (skirts) were let out. The front-closing bodices were usually held together by straight pins instead of buttons or other closures, and could easily be re-pinned to accommodate a changing figure. Triangular inserts called stomachers were used to fill the widening space left in between, and adjustable lacings were another practical design feature. Other popular garments, like the t-shaped bedgowns (cut like jackets, and worn not in bed, but as daywear), were sufficiently loose-fitting for pregnancy and nursing. The front-opening styles with deep necklines, in fashion for most of the 18thc, were also easily adapted for nursing mothers.

This rare three-piece ensemble from the collection of Colonial Williamsburg was likely designed by a woman and her mantua-maker (dressmaker) for her own use before, during, and after pregnancy. Cut from a diamond-quilted white cotton bed quilt, the old quilt's edging pattern was cleverly aligned to form an undulating border design along the hem of the petticoat. The drawstring at the petticoat's waist could easily expand, and would have been worn above the "baby bump."

It's also likely that the fashionable mother-to-be wore the petticoat over a padded false bum for extra volume in the back of her skirts, and that she continued to wear her stays (corset) beneath an ensemble like this one. Most 18thc stays laced up the back, and the two sides were never intended to meet. During pregnancy, the lacing was simply widened to allow more space. As always, the goal in the 18thc was not to achieve a tiny waist through tight lacing (as it was in the 19thc), but to maintain an erect posture and to create a silhouette that featured a straight front and narrow back. I'm sure most pregnant women skipped their stays while at home, but there were probably others who welcomed the familiar support that their stays offered.

The jacket with its stylish back peplum and fringed trim closed with a zig-zagging cord at the center front. For non-pregnancy wear, upper right, the front edges were laced together to meet at the front, but as the woman's pregnancy progressed, the third piece of the ensemble, a sleeveless undervest, would have been worn beneath the jacket, lower right. The vest, middle left, was not only cut widely for a pregnant body, but also had a slit in the back like a man's waistcoat, adjustable with more lacing. The jacket's front lacings could have been widened, with the vest beneath filling in the now-open front. The layers would also provided welcome warmth - always a plus in drafty 18thc houses.

While there are no records or contemporary descriptions of how Eliza Hamilton dressed during her pregnancies, I imagine that she, too, wore adaptable garments such as these, and that's how I described them in I, Eliza Hamilton. I suspect I'm not the only one inspired by this ensemble, either. The costume that's worn by the pregnant Eliza (played by Philippa Soo, and shown bottom left with Lin-Manuel Miranda as Alexander) in the musical Hamilton looks so much like the Colonial Williamsburg ensemble that I have to think the show's designer Paul Tazewell was aware of it, too.

Many thanks to Neal Hurst, associate curator of costumes and textiles, Colonial Williamsburg, for his assistance with this post.

In early December 1780, Alexander Hamilton finally received leave from his position on Gen. Washington's staff as an aide-de-camp, and headed north to Albany, NY to marry his fiancee Elizabeth Schuyler. It was his first leave away from the army since accepting his position in 1777. The young lieutenant colonel had performed his responsibilities so well that he'd become virtually indispensable to the general, who only grudgingly granted permission, and only for a few short weeks at that.

The wedding was a small family affair, with the service taking place in the parlor of The Pastures, the Schuyler family home overlooking the Hudson River. There are no surviving records of what either the bride or groom wore for the ceremony, or for the celebration that likely took place afterwards. The description of Eliza's gown that you'll find in my historical novel I, ELIZA HAMILTON is drawn from a suggestion for bridal dress for a fashionable winter wedding in a 1780 copy of The Lady's Magazine, the Georgian precursor of Vogue, andI also consulted with Janea Whitacre, the Mistress of the Mantua-making Trade at Colonial Williamsburg.

In a letter written to Eliza shortly before Alexander embarked for Albany, he asked if she'd prefer him to wear his uniform for the wedding, or civilian clothes. Alas, there's no surviving reply from her, so it's unknown which choice she made. I'm guessing that she chose his military attire, given that it was a war-time wedding.

None of Alexander's uniforms from the Revolution are known to survive today. Uniforms from the war saw considerable hard wear, and there are only a handful from the entire Continental Army that still exist. Among them is the uniform, above left, that was worn by another of Washington's aides-de-camp, and one of Alexander's close friends, Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman (1744-1786) of Maryland. Shown on a museum mannequin, the uniform is missing some key elements: the white linen shirt, gold officer's epaulettes, a sword and sword belt, boots, cocked black hat, and the green ribbon sash worn by members of the general's staff. The portrait, above right, shows Gen. Washington himself, with the Marquis de Lafayette in the middle, and Lt. Col. Tilghman to the right, all in uniform.

Alexander likely wore a very similar uniform for his wedding, and the remarkably unflattering miniature portrait of Alexander, below left, shows him in uniform from about the same time.

Now I have a totally unsubstantiated theory about this particular miniature: that Eliza must have seen it at some point during their courtship, and that perhaps Alexander even offered it to her, but that she rejected it as not being worthy of her beloved. During the summer of 1780, he had another miniature painted at her request, showing him looking much more conventionally handsome and in civilian dress; see it here.

In any event, the epaulettes shown in the photo lower right did in fact belong to Alexander, and may well have been the same ones shown in the miniature portrait. Epaulettes were a relatively new feature of military dress in the 1770s, and were worn to make officers more visible to their men in battle. They were also considered to have less of the aristocratic baggage of the ribbons and sashes traditionally worn by British officers, and were embraced by the Continental Army as being more democratic.

I saw Alexander's epaulettes on display this past summer at the American Revolution Museum at Yorktown, VA. Even though the gallery was in half-light to protect the artifacts (and make photos fuzzy!), the gold bullion still glittered despite being more the two centuries old. Imagine how those golden epaulettes and rows of polished buttons must have sparkled on Alexander's coat in the sunny parlor during the wedding, and imagine, too, how wonderfully dazzled Eliza must have been by her groom. Ahh, the sartorial power of a man in uniform....

The sudden death in July, 1804 of Gen. Alexander Hamilton from wounds suffered during his infamous duel with Col. Aaron Burr shocked a country, and left his family and friends reeling. Overwhelmed with grief, his new widow Elizabeth did not attend the funeral. She struggled to face life without the man she'd loved and supported, and told others that she longed to die as well. Not only was she left with seven surviving children - the youngest still a toddler - but she had also inherited her husband's considerable debts.

And yet, despite all this, the rituals of death and mourning were observed by the grieving family. Mourning clothing was ordered and worn; Eliza continued to wear a version of the same high-waisted black mourning dress for the rest of her long life. Calls and letters of condolence were received and answered. Before the general was buried, Eliza would have cut and saved locks of his hair.

Hair was among the most precious and treasured of mementos in the 19thc, a lasting link to the deceased. As I shared here, strands of Hamilton's hair were still being given to admirers by his son decades after the general's death. For the family and closest friends, the hair became the centerpiece of mourning rings.

These are two surviving examples of mourning rings ordered by the family to honor Hamilton shortly after his death. The ring, above right, was presented by Eliza to one of her husband's friends. Made of gold with a double shank band, the ring includes a braided swatch of Hamilton's hair, preserved under a crystal. Now in the collection of the New-York Historical Society, the ring has survived with its original dome-topped presentation box, covered in red leather and lined with blue and white velvet.

The second ring, above left, has remained in the Hamilton family, and is currently on loan and on display at the Museum of the American Revolution as part of their “Year of Hamilton” . This ring, also gold, features the precious hairs loosely wound together beneath a bevelled crystal, and surrounded by bands of white and black enamel. According to the description, the ring was worn as a pendant, suspended on a ribbon through the gold link added to the ring. The ring was said to have descended directly through the Hamilton-Schuyler family, and is believed to have been worn either by Eliza herself, or one of her daughters.

One thing that I find interesting about both rings are the inscriptions inside. Both are engraved with Hamilton's name, the date of his death, and his age at his death: "46 yrs. 6.mo.", which would make his birth year 1758. Most modern scholars, however, believe that he was born in 1757, or even 1755. Why the discrepancy? The current theory is that Hamilton was self-conscious about entering college at an age older than most of his classmates, and may have shaved a few years from his age before he arrived in New York to begin his studies at King's College. In any event, it's intriguing to think that his wife either didn't know the truth herself, or chose to perpetuate the incorrect date long after it would have mattered.

For those of us who knit, embroider, crochet, and sew, October is the get-serious month for finishing handmade gifts for the coming holiday season. But as hectic as that can be, there's also a special satisfaction in putting a bit of yourself into something you've created, a one-of-a-kind memento that links the giver and the recipient in a way that a purchased present never can. If you're a "maker," you understand.

My guess is that Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton (1757-1854), the wife of Alexander Hamilton, and the heroine of my new historical novel I, ELIZA HAMILTON, understood this, too. For 18thc American women of the elite class like Eliza, handiwork could be as practical as mending worn garments or stitching baby garments, or as extravagant as embroidery incorporating imported gold lace and silk thread. While nearly all women of Eliza's generation and social rank would have been taught at least rudimentary sewing and fancier needlework, for some it became a form of self-expression as well.

The objects these women created were a way that they proudly shared themselves, their accomplishment, and their love with friends and family. Often the most treasured of heirlooms are the quilts made in honor of a marriage, a tiny smocked infant's dress, or an embroidered mourning picture commemorating a lost parent.

Although there are no surviving written records of what needlework meant to Eliza, I suspect that it was important to her, and that not only did her practical and industrious nature mean that she was seldom without some bit of handwork, but also that she excelled at it. I've already shared examples of her needlework executed while she was in her early twenties: this embroidered matthat surrounds her future husband's miniature portrait, and the embroidered handkerchiefs that she made for their wedding. These are the work of talented stitcher who clearly relished her time with her needle.

This knitted pillow cover, however, tells a much different story. The cover is believed to have been made around 1854, shortly before her death at age 97. Although Eliza was said to have been sharp-witted to the very end of her long life, it's evident from this that age had taken its toll on her eyesight. It's telling that she chose to knit the cover rather than embroider. Knitting is a more forgiving craft that embroidery, and the repetitive motions of knitting are less demanding than the precision of a needle through linen.

Yet as a knitter myself, I look at this pillow cover and see what a challenge it must have presented. There are dropped, repeated, and twisted stitches, stitches that are mysteriously increased and others that disappear. The colored stripes aren't consistent, the rows irregular and misshapen. Instead of neatly mitering the corners and making a single, shaped square, the piece was done in strips that were sewn together, with woven ribbons sewn over the seams (perhaps by someone else helping with the completion?) to soften the awkward joinings. But despite all the mistakes, what I see most is the elderly Eliza's determination and persistence to make something special for an acquaintance, no matter how difficult the actual execution must have been for her.

Fortunately the recipient understood, too. Britannia W. Kennon (1815-1911) was the great-granddaughter of Martha Dandridge Custis Washington, wife of George Washington. Britannia is a fascinating woman in her own right, and deserves a future blog post of her own. In 1848, Eliza and her daughter Eliza Hamilton Holley moved from New York to Washington, DC, and rented a house on H Street owned by Britannia. The three women, sadly, had much in common. All three had been widowed at relatively early ages: Eliza's husband Alexander had died at age 48 (approximately; his birthdate is uncertain) of wounds suffered in his duel with Aaron Burr in 1804; Sidney Holly had died in 1842 in his early forties, and Britannia's husband, Commodore Beverley Kennon, had been killed in a shipboard explosion in 1844, less than two years after their marriage.

Britannia took the legacy of her family's past seriously. The elegant house in which she lived, Tudor Place, had been built by her parents with an inheritance from George Washington, and the furnishings included many pieces that had belonged to the Washingtons at Mount Vernon. Britannia arranged and displayed these objects at Tudor Place, taking care to record the details about each on hand-written paper tags.

Eliza's knitted pillow cover joined Britannia's collection. Perhaps it earned its place there because Eliza, long before, had been friends with Martha Washington, or because her late husband's numerous accomplishments gave luster to her own name by association. Perhaps, too, Britannia cherished the cover simply from respect and regard for Eliza herself. Preserved with the pillow is a small clipped paper, right, with Eliza's signature - "Elizth Hamilton", and on the back is a label in Britannia's handwriting: "Made by/Mrs. Alexander Hamilton/a short time before her/death, for Mrs. Kennon."

Today Tudor Place Historic House and Garden is a National Historic Landmark, and open to the public; see their website here for more information. Eliza's "knitted gift" is now part of Tudor Place's collections. Information for this post came from unpublished sources from the Tudor Place archives, and from an annotated edition of Britannia W. Kennon's reminiscences that currently being compiled for future publication. Many, many thanks to Curator Grant Quertermous for his generous assistance with this post. And thanks, too, to Hannah Boettcher, Public Programs Coordinator, Museum of the American Revolution, for suggesting that I seek out Eliza's pillow cover.

Above: Pillowcase, made by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton before 1854. Linen, wool. Courtesy of Tudor Place Historic House & Garden.

As much as I love reading about history, there are times when the tangible scars of a long-ago incident are infinitely more memorable than a thousand written words. A long time ago (oh, in the last century or so), when I was still in elementary school, my parents took me to Historic Deerfield as part of a family vacation. All the details of that trip are long gone from my memory except for one incredibly powerful object: the "Old Indian House Door" from the 17thc Capt. John Sheldon House.

The door survived the infamous 1704 Deerfield Raid by the French and their Native American allies, a massacre that killed fifty English men, women, and children, made captives of dozens of others, and left the town in ruins. The Sheldon House door stands as a mute testament to that harrowing day, with its broad beams hacked to form a ragged hole through which the French fired their muskets on the inhabitants. I recall the door being displayed complete with a tomahawk in place, but I might be imagining that. In any event, the door fed my nightmares for years. Still does.

That door has yet to appear in any of my books, but I thought of it immediately while I was researching my new historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. I've written before about the Schuyler Mansion, the house in which my heroine Eliza Schuyler Hamilton was raised (here, here, here, and here.) Originally known as The Pastures in the 18thc, the elegant brick mansion was surrounded by a large estate that overlooked the Hudson River.

But even The Pastures didn't entirely escape the American Revolution. Gen. Philip Schuyler, Eliza's father, first served in the Continental Army, and later in the war continued to advise his close friend Commander-in-Chief General George Washington. By the summer of 1781, the majority of the fighting had moved south, but the general's importance still made him a target to the enemy, and a small group of soldiers was assigned to the house to guard the general and his family. At the time, this included not only his wife Catharine and their younger children, but also his two older, married daughters, Angelica Church and Eliza Hamilton (both of whom were pregnant and visiting while their husbands were with the army), and Angelica's two children.

On a warm evening in August, the house was attacked by a group of local Tories and Native Americans. While the guards attempted to fight them off, the family fled upstairs to barricade themselves in one of the bedchambers until help arrived. Too late Catharine Schuyler realized to her horror that her youngest child, a baby also named Catherine, had been left asleep downstairs.

Bravely - or impulsively - the third daughter, twenty-two-year-old Margarita (better known as Peggy) raced back downstairs to rescue her baby sister. Challenged by the attackers who were now ransacking the house, Peggy thought quickly, and told them that armed reinforcements were on the way from the town. As she raced up the stairs with her sister in her arms, one of the attackers swung a tomahawk at her, catching her skirts and and hacking a deep gouge into the banister. Soon afterward, reinforcements did indeed arrive, the general and his family were saved, and Peggy was lauded as a heroine.

Today some of the details of the attack are suspected to have been 19thc embellishments. But there's no doubt that the raw tomahawk gouge remains in the banister, above left, carefully preserved over the centuries as proof. The gouge has grown wider over time as early 20thc visitors who were intrigued by the story carved out slivers of the railing for themselves as souvenirs. But as I ran my fingers over it, I couldn't help but picture brave Peggy Schuyler, her skirts flying and her baby sister wailing, as she faced down the enemy who'd dared attack her home.

This comes from the collections and the Twitter feed of the Museum of the City of New York. Apparently long before "Hamilton: The Musical" (and long before I, ELIZA HAMILTON, too), there was another Broadway smash featuring the Alexander Hamilton. "Hamilton" was a play written by Mary P. Hamlin (described at the time as a "high society matron" who'd long dreamed of writing a play) and popular English actor, playwright, and filmmaker George Arliss. Arliss starred in the production as Hamilton, and the play opened in 1917 to favorable reviews and a respectable run at the Knickerbocker Theatre.

According to Lin-Manuel Miranda, there's another coincidence, too. At the same time that the 1917 "Hamilton" opened on Broadway, another play was also running in a theater down the street. Its name? "The Heights."

Sufficient interest followed for the "Hamilton" play to be made into a film - now called "Alexander Hamilton" - in 1931. The title role was again played by Arliss, who was by this time sixty-three, and more than a bit long in the tooth to be playing Hamilton in his thirties.

The film turns up occasionally on TMC and other movie channels. To modern viewers, it's a curiosity, stiff and dated and overly mannered - especially when compared with the swagger and energy of Lin-Manuel Miranda's interpretation. Still, the earlier version does prove the enduring appeal of Hamilton's story, and it's worth watching just for that reason alone.

Images courtesy of the collections of the Museum of the City of New York. Thanks to Joanne Freeman for her Hamiltonian contribution to this post.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Most historical research for a novel involves words, and more words: letters, journals, diaries, and other books. But sometimes research means things: objects that were significant to my characters, and somehow survived: a tangible, magical link to the past.

Despite the popular history myths, 18thc women didn't sew the their all the clothing that their families wore. Nor did they shear the sheep and harvest the flax, process all the fibers, spin the thread, and weave the cloth; even if you lived on the edge of the wilderness, there were skilled tradespeople who took care of all that, and merchants ready to supply their wares at every price point. But while creating jackets, breeches, and gowns was left to tailors and mantua-makers, women did make the less challenging items like baby clothes, neckcloths, handkerchiefs, shirts, and shifts at home.

Sewing by hand was a useful skill, and considered a virtuously industrious one as well for women of every rank. But for many women, sewing was also a form of personal satisfaction and self-expression. The past (and the present!) is filled with women for whom sewing a neat, straight seam of perfectly even stitches or completing an intricate embroidery pattern is a matter of pride, accomplishment, and zen-like peace. Stitching for a special person could create a personal, even intimate, gift as well. Hand-made items can come with love and good wishes in every stitch.

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton (the heroine of my new historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton) enjoyed sewing, embroidery, and knitting. I've already shared one surviving example of her needlework, this lavish embroidered mat to display the miniature of her then-fiancee, Alexander Hamilton, made during the summer and fall when they were engaged but apart. Here are a pair of handkerchiefs that, by family tradition, were also made by Eliza, and carried by her and Alexander at their wedding in December, 1780.

The larger handkerchief, above, would have been Eliza's. Made of fine imported linen, it shows skilled cutwork over net inserts as well as precise stitching of the highest level, suitable for a special event like a wedding. (Given its size, I'm wondering if this might have been a neckerchief for wearing around the shoulders - a popular style in the 1780s - rather than a handkerchief, but since the archival description calls it a handkerchief, then so shall I.) Surviving, too, is the gentleman's handkerchief, below, with an embroidered geometric pattern with floral accents. Again, the legend is that Eliza made the handkerchief for Alexander, a romantic gift that he must have treasured.

Today the linen on the two handkerchiefs is yellowed and so fragile that they cannot be unfolded, but the beauty and the undeniable care (and likely love) that went into each one of those long-ago stitches remains. The fact that both pieces were set aside and treasured for more than two hundred years shows how special they must have been - and even now, in their special, acid-proof archival box, they're still stored together.

Many thanks to Jennifer Lee, curator, Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Columbia University, for showing the neckerchief and the handkerchief to me.

One of the more challenging things about writing a book set in the past is trying to imagine a modern city (especially one that I know personally, like New York or Philadelphia) the way that Eliza and Alexander Hamilton would have known it. Busy urban landscapes change by the week, let alone the century. Visiting historic sites is a wonderful gift to my imagination, but when a colonial building is now surrounded by high-rise buildings, complete with the noise of cars, trucks, and buses, it's not always easy to picture life in the same place nearly 250 years before.

I recently came across this wonderfully detailed painting of Philadelphia in 1776 at the beginning of American Revolution. At the time, Philadelphia was the largest city in the new United States, with a population of around 40,000, and it continued to grow after the war, particularly while serving as the new country's capital. The work of modern artist Paul MacWilliams, this painting shows Independence Hall when it was still called the State House, a most imposing building standing over a city that still had plenty of trees and green space. Most of the city's commercial buildings were clustered around the docks on the Delaware River, which can be glimpsed at the top corner, and would have continued just beyond the right edge of the painting.

All of this would have been familiar to both Eliza and Alexander Hamilton. Their various lodgings would have been to the east (the right in the painting) of the State House. Despite being large by early American standards, the city was still easily "walkable", and the distance between the Hamiltons' rented houses and the government offices where Alexander was employed was never more than a handful of city blocks. Churches, the city market, playhouses, taverns, and shops were also conveniently nearby.

According to a 2014 blog-post from The Library Company of Philadelphia, whose resources were consulted by Mr. MacWilliams to create this painting, the artist's research was exhaustive:

"Mr. MacWilliams, who holds a degree in illustration from the Philadelphia College of Art (now University of the Arts), used late 18th century Philadelphia maps, prints, and other visuals to research the landscape of the city looking north from Independence Hall. He also read through John Fanning Watson’s Annalsof Philadelphia to gain a better understanding of life in the colonial city. Outbuildings, gardens, even horse droppings in the street are meticulously rendered in his work which took three years to paint."

Most 18thc gentlemen who traveled frequently owned a portable desk, and Alexander Hamilton was no exception. Basically a hinged wooden box, these desks were the predecessors of modern laptops, and considered as indispensable, too. Because most were custom-made, designs varied to taste, but all have a surface covered in soft cloth (which made a quill pen move more easily over the page) for writing, plus compartments for storing bottles of ink, pens, paper, and other supplies. The desks folded and latched shut into a self-contained unit for carrying.

This desk shown open belonged to Alexander Hamilton, and was probably used by him most of his adult life. It's not large; I'm guessing that, open as shown here, the writing surface is probably only about 18" x 24". It's currently on view at the American Revolution Museum at Yorktown, VA as part of their exhibition AfterWARd: The Revolutionary Veterans Who Built America, through November 27, 2017.

In the 1780s and after the war, Hamilton worked as a lawyer, frequently traveling by horseback and carriage for various cases around the state of New York. During this time, he also served as a representative to the New York State Legislature as well as the Continental Congress, and later as a delegate to the Constitutional Convention, which meant more traveling between his home in New York City, Albany, and, most often, Philadelphia - hundreds of miles on unpredictable roads, in winter and in summer and in good weather and bad.

Hamilton was a ferociously prolific writer, full of ideas, opinions, and arguments, and blessed with the gift for words to express them. In an era before phones, telegraph, and internet, being able to communicate through letters was vital. Wherever Hamilton left his offices at home or at work, this desk would have accompanied him.

Made of Spanish mahogany with brass hinges and fittings, the desk is battered and worn from use. Tradition says that this was the desk on which Hamilton wrote the fifty-one essays that became his share of "The Federalist Papers," and helped lead to the ratification of the Constitution. As monumental an accomplishment as this must have been, it must also not have been easy, even for him. Striving to remove himself from the distractions of New York City in 1787, Hamilton, his wife Eliza, and their young children traveled by packet up the Hudson River to Albany and The Pastures, the home of Eliza's family, the Schuylers. The length of the voyage was dependent on winds and currents, yet it must have given him uninterrupted days to think and write - something every writer needs and craves.

Still, spoiled as I am by modern technology, I marvel at the idea of writing this way: drawing each letter, each word, with a quill pen in one hand and an open bottle of ink in the other, on a desk like this one braced against your knees or a rickety ship-board bunk, and everything (including you) rocking and shifting as the packet tacked back and forth across the river....

Today is celebrated in the United States as Constitution Day. But while the delegates to the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia signed their names to the document on September 17, 1787, the Constitution did not become law until it was considered, debated, and finally ratified by the states. In September, 1788, with eleven states having voted for ratification, the Continental Congress passed a resolution that put the Constitution into effect. The final two states, Rhode Island and North Carolina, did not agree to ratification until 1790.

While Alexander Hamilton had serious doubts about many aspects of the Constitution, once he put his signature to the document, he threw himself whole-heartedly into the battle for ratification. Along with James Madison and John Jay, he wrote the eighty-five essays arguing for ratification that have become known as the Federalist Papers. Jay wrote five of the essays, Madison twenty-nine, and Hamilton, always deft with a pen and an argument, wrote the remaining fifty-one.

The Constitution is a four-page document; you can read the original in its entirety here. State by state, the delegates signed the final page. Hamilton was a junior delegate (not only among the least experienced politically, but also a mere thirty years old) from New York, but because the other delegates were not in favor of the Constitution, they had left the convention earlier, leaving Hamilton to be the only New Yorker to sign. In the close-up, above, his signature stands proudly alone - and makes something of a brash statement with that extra-long slash to cross the "T".

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere. Order now.

True love, a war-time memento, and virtuoso needlework: inspiration doesn't get much better for me than that! This elaborately embroidered mat was stitched by a young woman in Albany, NY in 1780, specifically to surround the miniature portrait of her fiancé.

The mat is worked in silk and metallic (now tarnished) threads, with metallic bobbin lace (also now tarnished) framing the miniature. The lace may have been a costly import - perhaps it had originally trimmed a gown - or it may have been worked by the young woman herself. The harmony of the design, the elegantly shaded colors, and the precision of the stitches all indicate that she possessed considerable skill with her needle as well as a flair for design.

There's also little doubt that this was a labor of love whose sheer exuberance threatens to overwhelm the tiny miniature, which is less than two inches in height. Imagine how brilliant it must have been when the colors were still fresh and the metallic threads glittered! You can just tell that the young woman was dreaming of her beloved with every stitch she took. Perhaps she even kept the miniature nearby as inspiration.

Who were these two sweethearts? The needleworker was Elizabeth Schuyler, 22, and her fiancé was Lt. Colonel Alexander Hamilton, 23, who was serving in the Continental Army as an aide-de-camp to Commander-in-Chief Gen. George Washington. In 1780, the American Revolution was dragging through its sixth year, with no resolution in sight. The war had brought these two together - they had become engaged during the army's winter encampment earlier in the year - just as it also kept them apart during the summer and fall. Both had hoped for a quick wedding, but Alexander's military duties forced them to postpone their marriage until shortly before Christmas, 1780.

While Alexander was occupied with the war, Eliza had returned to her parents' home in Albany. They corresponded frequently, and though her letters no longer survive, his are filled with love and impatience. At one point during the summer and fall, she begged for him to have a miniature portrait of himself painted for her as a keepsake.

In this era before the constant imaging of cellphones, miniatures were the only small and portable reminders of a loved one's face available, much as daguerreotypes would a century later during the Civil War. In war-time, when a violent death or disfigurement could occur at any time, the significance of these mementos rose significantly. Enterprising American artist Charles Willson Peale held sittings in his Philadelphia studio as well as traveling to encampments during the war, painting miniatures of dozens of soldiers for the sum of $28 a piece - a not insignificant amount to young men in an army which was often late paying them.

Alexander had himself painted twice by Peale: one earlier in the war wearing his uniform, and this one that he sent to Eliza, where he is shown a blue coat and a red waistcoat, with his auburn-red hair elegantly powdered and curled. In a letter discussing their coming wedding, he offered to wear either his uniform or civilian clothing for the ceremony; he left the decision to her. Perhaps he had himself painted as a civilian to reassure her that he wouldn't always be a soldier, and that peace would come. It did, but not until after Alexander had fought heroically in the last major encounter of the war, the Battle of Yorktown, in 1781. To her joy, he survived unscathed, and came home to her - a home that always included this portrait and the needlework around it.

Above: Portrait of Alexander Hamilton by Charles Willson Peale, c1780. Mat embroidered by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, c1780. Both from the collection of the Office of Art Properties, Columbia University Libraries. Image copyright Columbia University Libraries.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere. Order now.

The long wait is nearly over! I, ELIZA HAMILTON will be available everywhere on September 26 - but those of you who'll be in the Philadelphia area next weekend will be able to get yours early at a very special booksigning in Birmingham Township, PA.

The booksigning will be part of Brandywine 2017, a weekend-long re-enactment event that marks the 240th anniversary of the Battle of Brandywine. Brandywine was the largest land battle of the American Revolution between the Continental and British forces, with 30,000 combatants meeting on the Pennsylvania fields and farms. Although the Americans lost, the battle proved that the Continental Army was to be taken seriously as a fighting force. General George Washington was in command, and with him was a young French aristocrat, the Marquis de Lafayette, making his first appearance on the battlefield for the Americans.

Oh, and there was also another young officer at the battle, serving as one of General Washington's aides-de-camp - Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton. Can you understand now why I wanted this to be my first signing for I, ELIZA HAMILTON?

Nearly a thousand uniformed Revolutionary War re-enactors will gather from around the country to recreate the battle, fighting on the same farmland as the original battle more than two centuries ago. There will be cavalry, dragoons, cannon fire, muskets, rifles, and military music. Before and after the "battle", visitors will also be able to tour the authentic encampments and observe military inspections, and check out the 18thc-style wares offered for sale by dozens of vendors and sutlers. There will be other authors, too, offering fiction, non-fiction, and children's books, all with a Revolutionary War connection.

Perhaps best of all, the event is free, with plenty of free parking. Check out the Brandywine2017 website for all the details, plus directions.

I'll be signing I, ELIZA HAMILTON on Saturday, September 16, from 11:00 am-1:00 pm, in the author tent near the entrance. Hope to see you there!

Photograph courtesy Brandywine2017.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere. Order now.